


two misanthropes walk into a bar

by ahana



Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: F/M, VMTAP20, Veronica and Logan are assholes, Wedding date, no beta we die like men, we love them for it, you're the worst au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:34:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25070206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahana/pseuds/ahana
Summary: Logan is a supposedly entitled, vaguely depressed writer who bums cigarettes off his roommate and just wants to be left alone. Veronica would like for people to take her seriously when she says she doesn’t want to meet their parents just six months into a relationship before she is forced to take her taser out.All it takes is an ex’s wedding and a horrifically overpriced crystal vase for them to realize that they are absolutely right to believe in the inherent obnoxiousness of “other people.” Right?[AYou’re The WorstAU.]
Relationships: Logan Echolls/Veronica Mars
Comments: 28
Kudos: 40





	two misanthropes walk into a bar

**Author's Note:**

> Quick warning: Logan's a bit mean when talking about/thinking about Lilly in this fic but that's only because he's hurting and he's doing that thing where he becomes an asshole when he's hurt. FYI, I love Lilly.

Logan maintains a list of everything that makes him want to smash a gold plated brick through a glass window and then proceed to destroy the everloving shit out of the building that houses that aforementioned window.

It’s what keeps him sane.

His father’s smug smile as he sits on a stupidly expensive table during the seemingly never ending series of depositions had always been a great contender for the number one spot. That was followed closely by his English professors in college who said his writing was always “obfuscating his thesis,” and that one frat bro neighbor who plays Flo Rida at eight in the morning.

But, joy of all joys, he’s found the brick-smash-provoking, jaw-dropping chart topper for his list — being invited to his ex’s wedding.

The unnecessary and, frankly, obnoxious fanfare is hosted at La Bellezza. It’s the latest Californian money making scheme to milk celebrities out of their luxury homes by convincing them that an Italian wedding is the only wedding to have. Even if they can’t afford to fly their 150 guests to Positano.

It’s gorgeous, he’ll give her that. The ballroom is lined with tall arched windows on either side — the left facing a marbled corridor that runs the length of the hotel and the right overlooking a Mediterranean courtyard. Above him, a fresco stretches across, with Baroque-inspired celestial bodies dotting it. The place is packed. People chatter about sombre topics like the scandalous wedding dress with it’s atrociously high slit, the audacity of the couple to not serve gluten-free bread and of course — the presence of the notorious ex.

It’s a wedding she’d be proud of.

In the corner, away from the glimmer of the chandeliers and the wandering eyes of vaguely interested celebutantes, is Logan Echolls, ex-lover of the bride and champion of most of the bridesmaids’ newfound sexual reveries. And he hasn’t a fucking clue why he’s here.

There’s a number of reasons why people invite their exes to their weddings. Bragging rights is always a good one. But Logan figured he had claimed that when he slept his way through Hollywood.

There are fewer reasons why said ex would actually come to the wedding. Angsty goodbye sex? Possibly. The chance to say “I object” is always a good option, too. But Logan doesn’t want either of those things.

All he can feel right now is anger. He’s angry that he was invited to this shindig in the first place and he’s angry that he RSVP’d no but still showed up slightly tipsy.

The band at the front of the hall shifts to something slower and the lead singer mumbles something about love being precious like koalas or some shit.

Fuck if he knows.

He just rolls his eyes and goes to take another swig from his near-empty bottle. The whiskey is shit and the table he’s sitting at — Table 39, cue the jazz hands! — is empty. All the chairs were pushed away when people went to mingle and dance. The plates have been cleared off, the flower arrangement in the middle is drooping just a little bit and the table makes a clanging noise when he slams his bottle on top of it.

A loud laugh rings through the crowd. He hates that he doesn’t even have to look up to know who’s attracting all the attention.

Lilly Kane stands in the middle of the Venetian ballroom, as has always been her prerogative. In a silky red dress with sequins dotting her seams, she looks like the star at the center of a galaxy. She laughs at something someone said and her hair falls off her shoulders perfectly.

It’s nauseating.

Lilly used to be someone different. She was the woman who stole whiskey from a biker bar, conned some pretentious dick into giving her his bike, and raced to Logan’s place just to tell him she loved him. She taught him how to live life. And now she’s married to some washed up teen actor addicted to steroids waiting for the day he can stage his comeback as the DILF on some shitty teen drama?

God, he needs another drink. Fast.

The bar’s not empty but he manages to catch the bartender’s attention for a scotch on the rocks. He lays his head down on the counter and runs a hand through his hair.

How did it get to this? How has it already been three years since he last saw Lilly?

“I had fifty on you not showing, _lovah_ ,” a voice says from behind him. “Thanks for making my wallet lighter.”

Logan turns around just as the bartender slides his drink over to him. “Your wallet has never been light.”

Lilly smiles. It’s the slightest bit dull around the corners and it makes him angry.

“Lilly,” he nods in greeting.

“Logan,” she copies. “Are you having fun?”

He takes a long sip and looks out at the obnoxious ballroom. “Oh, yeah. Killer party, Lils. I’m loving the happy face you’re trying so hard to put on. Remind me, does the loss of control on your facial muscles come free with the rip-off Chad Michael Murray? Like is it a two-for-one offer?”

Lilly looks ticked off, which should probably make him feel better. But he just feels something inside him sink lower in his gut.

“Logan, I invited you because I thought we could be friends again,” she says softly. “The way we used to be.”

“That’s some bullshit,” he said, loudly. “We were friends for a hot minute before I let you into my pants!”

“That is not — ”

“And besides, what kind of idiot is friends with their ex?”

“Don’t get crazy violent, Logan. Don’t cause a scene,” Lilly hisses through her teeth. She pulls him by the arm into a corner of the ballroom, away from the guests who are shamelessly staring at them.

“Ooh I didn’t think I’d miss the fondling but I do,” Logan quips. Even as he says it, he knows it’s a bad idea, but hey, no one in his life ever taught him shit about self-control. “You can be on top again. Maybe we can scar your guests with some hot sex.”

“God, Logan! I forgot how intense you could be.” A flash of fury crosses Lilly’s eyes and her grip on his arm gets tighter. He can feel her nails digging into his skin and it’s like some twisted masochist’s fantasy of a rom-com goodbye scene. “This is my wedding. A wedding I invited you to out of goodwill. Can’t you just be happy for me?”

“Happy?” _Unbelievable._ “Happy to see what? You, all decked out for your C-list friends while they judge every detail of your appearance and your new husband cracks a joke about his future wife number three? Yeah, no thanks.”

“Fuck you!” Lilly shrieks.

She shoves him into the wall and comes so close he can taste the smoked duck she had for dinner. They’ve definitely caught everyone’s attention by now. He’s surprised he hasn’t been cut and flayed by any of the egotistic groomsmen by now.

“You think you’re better than this? That you’re so above all of this? Deep down, Logan, you’re just as miserable as us. Only you’re unpleasant and a nightmare to be around, too! You are not as original as you think you are.”

Suddenly, Lilly’s pulled away from him and two giant arms yank him out of the corner. Logan refuses to look anywhere but her, as he is hauled out on his ass by the beefy security guards. They push him through the crowd of guests that had gathered around their little tête-à-tête, their whispers latching onto him.

“Get your paws off me, I’m leaving,” he spits out, shoving the giants away.

_Fucking assholes._

He stumbles out of the ballroom, nearly bumping into four moronically-dressed bimbos in the hallway, and hurries down the staircase. The quicker he gets out of here the better. If Dick didn’t stock up on booze, he’s going to be a dead man when Logan gets to him.

  
  


Outside, the valet takes his ticket, promising to be back in five minutes, and Logan’s already feeling restless. He’s got the fucking itch now — the kind he only gets when he’s already on the path of self-destruction. Self-berating words jump around in his head in a voice that sounds like Lisa, the only therapist he managed to keep for more than two sessions, and honestly? He’d rather not remember her psychoanalysis that proved he was begging for attention he never got as a child and made all of his decisions based on his traumatic childhood in Hollywood.

A ripping sound to his left tears into the quiet night. From his periphery, he sees a blonde woman aggressively attacking a huge box — obviously stolen from Lilly’s wedding. She’s muttering angrily under her breath and he catches snippets of her words.

“Fucking… Shitty tape… Useless motherfucking fingers,” she mumbles.

 _Score_ , he thinks. This is the anger he wants to surround himself with tonight.

“Stop stabbing it. That’s not helping you.”

“Go wallow somewhere else,” she spits out immediately. “Preferably somewhere I can’t see the fumes coming out of your ears.”

Logan takes a step closer to her but doesn’t bother facing her. Just because he wants to be near her anger doesn’t mean she wants to be near his.

Her fingers continue fighting the box like some small-scale version of The Bride’s sword. He reaches into his pocket for the pack of imported cigarettes he stole from Dick and pats his other pockets for a lighter he knows he’s carrying.

“Nice job in there,” Kill Bill girl says, taking a deep breath before continuing her fight with the taped edge. “Ten out of ten for the drama factor. Though I would have appreciated it a lot more if you didn’t spill my champagne while you stormed out in your burst of incivility.”

A part of Logan’s wondering if he missed the part of the conversation where he actually asked for her goddamn opinion. A larger part is wondering where the fuck the valet went. It does not take this long to find his yellow ass of a car and drive it up a ramp.

“Sorry, do I know you.” He phrases it like a sentence — bored and on the verge of pissed.

“Hey, you started this conversation,” she says with a huff.

“I didn’t start any conversation. I merely offered some assistance before you could destroy the poor box without finding out what you stole.”

“Not stealing. My gift was better than they deserved so I’m only taking what they owe me.”

He sticks the unlit cigarette in his mouth after coming up empty. “Now, that’s some sound logic. Wall Street know about you?”

She huffs out a reluctant laugh and Logan gives himself two extra points for the upturned corner of her mouth.

“If it’s a smoothie maker or something gross like that that Madison Sinclair would enjoy, I’m going to lose my shit,” she segues.

Her tiny nails that have clearly been bitten to an unhealthily short length finally snag the little piece of tape before losing it again.

He smirks. “You know, it really shouldn’t take you this long to pull some tiny pieces of tape off.”

Kill Bill girl just shoots him daggers and mutters, “Stupid nail biting gene.”

Logan’s full on grinning now and he knows it. He’s about to say something quippy when a thought stops him. Madison Sinclair. The Bride knows Madison Sinclair. He went to high school with that vapid human suit of a cheerleader. Who the hell is this girl?

“You’re not from the bride’s side.”

“Fuck, did they glue the paper down to the box or something?” She’s finally got the wrapping paper to tear off, only to discover another layer of sparkly wrapping paper.

“You don’t look like you’re a size zero so you’re definitely not from the groom’s side.”

“I swear, gift wrapping should be some sort of Olympic sport. The damn Pottery Barn team would win gold every year.”

Logan gives into her argument. “See, that looks a lot like it’s compensating for something.”

She gasps, placing a hand over her heart while her mouth drops open in a perfect, red O. “Why, Mr. Echolls, must you shock my sensibilities this way.”

Logan can’t help but be slightly amused. He gestures for her to hand over the box and begins to tear the paper off slowly.

“I am from the groom’s side,” she finally answers. Logan lifts an inquisitive eyebrow and tilts his head in question. “I do Conor favors occasionally. I didn’t know those favors rated a wedding invite but here we are.”

Ah, yes. Conor with a single N. He tells everyone it’s a stylistic choice but Logan knows it’s only because Conor’s mother just forgot to add another N on his birth certificate.

Conor used to be his best friend, back before the Echolls of Hollywood moved to L.A. Their mothers used to host pool parties with other kids and Conor, believe it or not, was the only one among thirty brats with braces who didn’t care that his dad was Aaron Echolls. Until, of course, Aaron won two Oscars and Conor decided he wanted to be an actor too and then suddenly it was “Logan, your dad” this and “holy shit your dad” that.

And now he’s married to Logan’s ex-girlfriend.

Fuck him. Fuck her. Fuck it all to hell.

“Favors?” He shakes off the anger that had started buzzing around him again. “Dirty,”

The girl next to him makes a noise of disgust. She snatches the box back and pulls the wrapping off. A nondescript black box sits in her hands.

“I was a private detective in college. Conor knew someone who knew someone who knew me,” she says. “And I solved some stuff for him.”

Private detective? I guess that answers how she knew his last name. But — 

“Why did you know who I am?”

She turns her head to look at him straight in the eyes, chewing on the inside of her lip as she peruses Logan’s face looking for… something. “Conor made me do some digging.”

Ah, yes. The ever-reliant method of checking up on your potential fiancee’s dating history before you pop the question. Nothing says _honey I’d love to marry you_ more than a fucking background check.

“That marriage is a sham.”

“You’re telling me,” she says. “Those two are doomed. Conor’s never been a one-girl kinda guy in the past and I’d bet all the money in my wallet that hasn’t changed now.”

“How much money do you have in your wallet?”

“Like five dollars.”

“Oh, so, a steep bet then,” Logan nods like he’s impressed.

Next to him, she just pulls a pair of imaginary sunglasses down to the brim of her nose and gives him the gaudiest wink he’s ever seen from someone whose name wasn’t Dick Casablancas.

He rolls his eyes, careful not to look like he’s actually not having a horrible time talking to her, and she opens the box carefully. Her hands pull out an opaque vase with naked women sculpted on the outside.

She holds it up in one hand for him to see. Clearly this philistine has no idea how much that vase could be worth.

“Get a load of this guy,” she laughs.

“You know, that’s probably worth like two thousand bucks.”

“Bejeezus! Why?” She spins the vase around as if examining it from all sides will answer her question. “God, money is wasted on the wealthy.”

In response, Logan rolls his eyes again and looks at the city shining below him. All those fame-obsessed people, all here for the same mess of camera flashbulbs, nepotistic production houses and Botox diets. He had fought so hard to not be them, to not give in to what the media had always expected him to become — a washed-up actor’s privileged addict son. And yet, he’s still in L.A., he’s chasing a mess more concerned with punctuation, and he’s addicted to the drama that comes with Lilly Kane-Larkin.

 _Okay_ , he thinks, _I’m not drunk enough to spiral into an existential crisis._ He needs to switch gears. Now.

“Has any couple ever had a more dishonest start to a marriage?” Logan asks.

Well, he tried.

The girl next to him huffs a laugh. “Sweet, sweet summer child. You know better than that.”

Touche, stranger.

His car finally arrives, coming to a stop right in front of him. The valet gets out in a hurry and opens her mouth to give what Logan is sure is a riveting excuse but he’s a little busy at the moment. The woman next to him continues talking like she knows she’s piqued Logan’s interest.

“The party could have been worse,” she says. “I mean there could be a horse driven carriage waiting to take them to the honeymoon.”

“Aw geez,” Logan pretends to dry heave into the rose bushes next to them. “Or… the horse driven carriage is their honeymoon — ”

He waits for a second until he sees Veronica’s entire face squinch up. “Ew! I don’t want to picture that.”

“— though I imagine that’d be hard to achieve considering the Kama Sutra-esque positions Lilly required to get off.”

Her shoulders are shaking with silent laughter and Logan tries not to be visibly pleased. “And then there's the fact that she can only orgasm through anal."

A gasp comes from behind Logan and he turns around to see an old couple walking out of the ballroom. The woman next to him starts laughing loudly as she sees Carrie Bishop's parents walk out of the ballroom.

Logan nods at them in greeting. “Mr. and Mrs. Bishop. How are you doing?”

They scurry back inside, obviously in a hurry to tell Lilly that her hooligan of an ex is still hanging around.

Logan turns to the woman next to him and realizes he never actually... looked at her. She’s got blonde hair that falls in short, choppy curls to frame her face. A simple necklace hangs around her neck. She shifts from foot to foot and he assumes she’s in pain because of her heels, which don’t do much to hide the fact that she’s surprisingly short. A gust of wind blows her hair back and Logan’s eyes fixate on her lips.

"You're beautiful," he decides.

She turns to him with an incredulous expression, which probably means she's going to get mad at him for hitting on her, so he takes a step closer to her until they're standing too close to be just cab-splitting acquaintances. Her breath hitches and her body tenses. But, she's looking at his lips so what high horse is she trying to get on here, really?

He smirks. This could be a really fun, really long night.

**Author's Note:**

> So, it’s been a really long time since I’ve written fiction and I apologize if this seemed messy and filled with too many run-ons. This story was originally supposed to be a one-shot but life got in the way so I split it into three parts.
> 
> Some of the dialogues have been pulled from the pilot script of You’re The Worst. I really love Jimmy in the intro scene and just thought it was perfect for Logan. The script can be found [here](http://leethomson.myzen.co.uk/Youre_the_Worst_1x01_-_Pilot.pdf). The entire show is available on Hulu. I highly recommend it!
> 
> Some of the dialogues have also been taken from Veronica Mars. Transcripts can be found [here](http://vmtranscripts.com/). 
> 
> La Bellezza doesn’t really exist. It is modeled on The Breakers — a luxury resort in Palm Beach, Florida — where, according to Scarlet Events, Sofia Vergara and Joe Manganiello got married. Bellezza is an Italian word for beauty, or so Google Translate tells me. 
> 
> The dress Lilly’s wearing is inspired by the one [worn](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/156218680805610608/) by model Alessandra Ambrosio to a 2017 Oscars afterparty. I just figured Lilly would love the scandal of a half-covered bust and a high slit. 
> 
> For the curiouser folks, Veronica’s jumpsuit looked like [this](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/386394843024035862/) in my mind but in navy blue. 
> 
> The crystal vase Veronica stole is based on this [“Bacchantes Clear Vase”](https://www.amara.com/us/products/bacchantes-crystal-vase-clear-small) worth $1,061. 
> 
> While writing this, I was listening to 7:30 Am by Slothrust, Pedestrian At Best by Courtney Barnett and I Want You To Want Me by Letters to Cleo. The first is the theme song of You’re The Worst.
> 
> [Edited for grammatical errors post-publication]


End file.
